Felicity Carrol and the Murderous Menace

by Patricia Marcantonio

  Pike took off his hat. He ran his hand through his longish hair as if letting something go. Felicity noted a cast of sympathy shadowing his face, as if he had lost a family member in the alley. Those vulnerabilities, albeit small ones, made him more attractive.

  He turned to her. “Whenever there’s a murder, for better or worse, there’s a reason. Over money. A woman, an insult, a mining claim. Too much liquor. But with this one, I can’t see a clear reason other than to spill blood and cause pain.” He replaced his hat.

  So close to the truth, Sheriff, Felicity thought.

  “I’ve coped with shootouts, swindles, bar fights, and murders where the killers didn’t cut up their victims like that.” Pike hit the side of the alley with his fist. “Whatever the reason, it smells to heaven.”

  “Hamlet!”

  “I’m not a buffoon, however much you may think so.”

  “On the contrary, Sheriff. I’m very impressed.” She marveled that this lawman knew Shakespeare, but Pike only stiffened with skepticism. He apparently didn’t know how to handle her compliment either. She had to return to business. “For my book, I want to absorb the atmosphere. Don’t let me keep you from your duties. I can find my way back.”

  “Check the time.” An order.

  She glanced at her watch. A little past five. Shadows began to edge along the alley.

  “If you think I’m going to leave you here alone, you’re crazier than a roomful of drunks on a Saturday night.”

  “A colorful metaphor.” Felicity sighed, because she clearly wasn’t going to get rid of him. “Very well. I must take photographs.”

  “Why?”

  “As a reference. They’ll help me describe the place when I start writing.”

  “Damn if that doesn’t sound reasonable.”

  From the back of the wagon, Felicity drew out the camera, dry plates, and a wooden tripod. To take the most effective photographs, she had studied the work of Mathew Brady, who had brilliantly captured the American Civil War. Like him, she hoped her photographs would convey a story and not just reflect reality. She had also taught herself how to develop plates and had become an avid reader of the British Journal of Photography.

  Felicity took two photographs of the alley and two more of the blood on the walls. While she worked, Pike stood in the alley smoking a short cigar and watched her every action. His acute interest made his eyes grow darker.

  When she finished, he helped her load the camera equipment into the buckboard. “Now that you’re done with your little picture taking, I have questions of my own.”

  “It’s frightfully late.”

  “You’re not getting away so easy, Miss Carrol.”

  “Felicity, please.”

  “Miss Carrol,” he emphasized. “You might be a writer as you say, but why come all the way to Placer?”

  Good questions, and ones she didn’t wish to answer at the moment. But she had to convince him of her story, so she mixed in a bit of truth. “I wanted to study the crime with my own eyes to give my writing authenticity. I intend to thoroughly investigate the circumstances of Lily Rawlins’s death. I saw her grave, and with time, it will soon pass into oblivion. If I write about her, I shall preserve a bit of her life in print. That’s something, isn’t it?”

  She turned away, but Pike took hold of her left arm.

  Felicity swiveled her body to face him. She understood his frustration, so she didn’t get angry. “No need to manhandle me.” Her voice was steady.

  “We do our best to keep crime at bay, but this place is treacherous. If you’re not careful, you’re going to get hurt nosing around the Red District. I don’t care if you’re the next Harriet Beecher Stowe, it might be best for all around if you and your woman friend leave Placer tomorrow.”

  Felicity shook his hand off. “Sheriff, I’m not disregarding your warnings. I shall use all caution. If it eases your mind, I can take care of myself, and I’m not afraid.”

  “That’s even worse.” He expelled a gust of breath. “Sorry I grabbed your arm.”

  Like so many men, he was unaccustomed to apologizing. “I believe you rather enjoyed it.” Her mouth turned up.

  “I believe you’re right. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

  “Just your typical Englishwoman.”

  “I seriously doubt that, Miss Carrol. Do you want to have dinner with me tomorrow night?” His eyebrows rose, his own impetuousness seeming to surprise him.

  She was astonished as well. Never had she received a dinner invitation after being told to leave town.

  “I will dine with you, provided you don’t arrest me for asking too many questions,” she said as he helped her up into the wagon.

  “Pick you up at six. Until then, stay out of damn trouble.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Hands shook Felicity awake. A candle flickered above her head.

  “Hellie?” Felicity could not yet focus.

  “Apologize for waking you, Miss, but Mr. Lowery says to tell you another woman has been murdered.”

  * * *

  Felicity declined Robert Lowery’s offer to drive her to the blacksmith shop on Mulligan Road, but she did seek his directions. In the back of the wagon, she placed her camera and satchel full of investigation tools and took up the reins. Back home, driving a carriage by herself and without a host of servants and chaperones was tantamount to a Lady Godiva ride in front of Westminster Palace.

  But this was not home.

  The early-morning sun covered the town in a copper hue, which she believed most appropriate in a town obsessed with the metal. Drawing her shawl tight about her shoulders, she shuddered at the prospect of what lay behind the blacksmith shop. Yet she clicked her tongue to speed up the horses.

  The forest-green wooden building had a large square opening in the middle and two windows on each side. Over the door, the sign read KENRICK BLACKSMITH. Iron rings of varying sizes leaned against the front wall, as did a worn iron bench. Two horses snorted in a small corral on the left side of the building. Inside, the muscular smithy pounded metal on anvil, emitting sparks with each stroke. Keeping his head to his work, he acted as if death hadn’t dropped by his business. After tying her horses across the street, Felicity picked up her equipment and walked behind the building.

  Tom Pike shouted at the dozen or so people who stood over the body. “Everybody back away, dammit. Give the doc room to work. This isn’t no traveling show for you to gawk at.” The curious obeyed but muttered at their forced retreat. Pike motioned to his deputies. “Don’t let anybody within a hundred feet of here.”

  Two working men stood beside Felicity. One asked the other, “Who’s dead?”

  “Another whore,” his friend replied.

  “There’s plenty of ’em left. I say we go get breakfast.”

  Evidently having had their fill of murder, the men and others departed. That gave Felicity a better vantage point. A slender man in a dark suit bent over the body. A black physician’s bag sat on the ground beside him. Dense red hair topped his head and filled in his full mustache and beard. Standing close to the scene of the murder was Clark Andrews, still wearing the same gray suit and grimace he had worn the day Felicity met him at the Gazette office. The newspaper reporter shook his head as he jotted notes. The reporter’s presence gave her an idea.

  Felicity walked around a beefy young deputy.

  “Ho, there,” he said, and stepped in front of her.

  “I’m a writer, too. If Mr. Andrews from the Gazette newspaper is allowed near the body, then so am I.”

  His hefty arms held her back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, lady. So stay put.”

  “I must get closer,” she added with indignation.

  “You ain’t getting no closer. I got orders.”

  “Sheriff! Oh, Sheriff!” Felicity waved at Pike, who was watching the doctor examine the body.

  Pike strode over to her, took his hat off, and slapped it against his leg. “What in the blazes are you
doing here?”

  “I must examine the remains.”

  Pike stepped in front of Felicity, which did little to block her view. “Why do you want to see such a thing?”

  “Because it’s important for the book I’m writing.”

  “I thought you were writing about Big Lil’s murder.”

  “Now there are two. That makes for a better story.”

  “A female shouldn’t witness this.”

  “Never mind my gender. Think of me as a writer.”

  “It’s hard not to think of you as a woman. Besides, this is official town business.”

  “You allowed Mr. Andrews to view the body. Why not me? We are both writers. Besides, I might be able to sell this story to the Times of London.”

  Pike flushed as if he had no good argument. “You can have your turn after Dr. Lennox completes his job. But if you have nightmares for the rest of your life, don’t blame me, sister. Let her through, Wilbur.”

  With ease, Felicity ducked under the big deputy’s arms and positioned herself off to the side for a good view. The body lay parallel to the back wall of the blacksmith building and about one yard away from it. The right arm lay across the chest with the other arm at the side. The left leg was drawn up.

  Felicity covered her mouth at the sight of all the blood. Saturating the woman’s dress. Forming a muddy pool on the ground. Staining the wall.

  Two acute gashes crossed the victim’s neck and severed the jugular vein, which explained the copious amount of blood. A slit long as the woman’s forearm had been made in the center of her abdomen. The bright-red tissue underneath the wounds contrasted with the pale skin in such a way that the killer seemed to have allowed something feral to escape.

  The doctor drew the victim’s dress down over her legs and brushed his hand over the open eyes to close them. After wiping his bloody hands on a white cloth, he wrote in a small notebook. He took off his wire-framed glasses to clean them. Throughout, his face lacked any reaction, but his movements were precise and abrupt, as though he was inconvenienced by having to be there. Replacing his stovepipe hat, the doctor joined the sheriff standing a few feet from the body.

  Wearing a singed leather apron, the blacksmith pushed open the back door of his shop. His face looked like burned steel. “Why’d they have to pick my business for their dirty work?” he said to no one in particular.

  “Russ, you’ll have to take that up with the murderer,” Pike replied.

  Clark Andrews waved over the blacksmith and started asking him questions.

  “Still want to see this?” Pike asked Felicity.

  “I’m not running away, Sheriff.”

  “I hoped you might.”

  “I never retreat.”

  He motioned for her to proceed.

  Felicity crouched down. There was no torn clothing or lacerations on the victim’s hands from fighting off the assailant. So there hadn’t been much of a struggle. This told her the victim had known the murderer or was killed quickly.

  A mess of footprints in numerous sizes and shapes marred the ground all around the victim. “Sloppy, sloppy,” Felicity said.

  A glint in the dirt. A plain silver ring had been partially buried at the foot of the body. Felicity glanced around. Pike was talking with the doctor and no one else looked her way, so she picked the ring up with a handkerchief and placed it in her pocket. The middle finger on the woman’s right hand was bruised. The killer had ripped off the ring. Why?

  Felicity stood and frowned. The setting was chaotic. Children and dogs ran by. Deputies shouted at everyone to get back. Horses and carriages trod along the street nearby. The blacksmith had returned inside and pounded away at the anvil. To gather more details about the murder, she needed time with the body, and this was not the place.

  “I thought you were going to fall over.” Pike was behind her.

  “This ground is uneven.”

  “I understand.” His voice softened.

  “Who is she, Sheriff?” Felicity said.

  “Mattie Morgan. Another prostitute. She lived in one of the cribs a few streets over on Viceroy. The blacksmith spotted her body at five this morning, but the doctor says she had probably been dead for two to three hours.”

  She stooped down again to feel the stiffness in the body’s jaw and neck muscles, where rigor mortis usually began. The doctor was correct. She stood up. “I’m going to shoot photographs now.”

  Pike dropped his shoulders. “Suit yourself. She’s beyond caring. But make it quick. I’ve called for a wagon to carry off the body.”

  “To where?”

  “The undertaker, Quigley and Son. And I’m afraid our dinner is off tonight.”

  “Understandable.”

  Felicity peered into the camera’s viewer at the image of Mattie Morgan’s body. Through her inquiries into various crimes, Felicity had attempted to remain the observer, but the task was difficult at the pitiful sight of lives stolen away by murder. Yet she had found a balance. A way to stay dispassionate enough to seek out clues but let in some anger to drive her on to find the killer.

  Click. She took a photograph of the body but also experienced a jolt of terror. The same type of wounds. The position of the bodies. The awful mutilations. The man’s cunning and sick ceremony. And as heartbreaking as the brutality was, the loneliness of the figure alone on the dirt. Tremors attacked Felicity’s hands, and she wrung them to stop the shaking.

  Felicity took four photographs of the body from different angles. She backed up for a wider view of the location, which included Tom Pike conversing with one of his deputies and the doctor walking away from the blacksmith shop.

  While Felicity began packing her photography equipment, the sheriff summoned two men leaning against the wall and sharing a cigarette. The men covered the body with a wool blanket, each lifting one end. On the way to the wagon, the woman’s bloody hand slipped out and seemed to wave a farewell.

  “Sheriff, when you arrived at the scene of the murder, did you notice any distinguishing footprints near the body? With all this trampling around, I suppose a clear footprint is going to be impossible to distinguish.” Felicity could almost hear Pike’s teeth grind together at her question.

  “For your information, I did locate one clear footprint between the body and the wall. A good shoe made it, not a work boot. Then again, the print may not belong to the man who killed Mattie Morgan. That satisfy your interest?”

  “More like ignite it.”

  “What good news.”

  “More sarcasm, Sheriff. And I’ve made your neck veins protrude like ropes.” She admitted to herself she felt a bite of pleasure at challenging this too-serious lawman.

  His hand went to his neck, which he rubbed. “You’re calling me a bad lawman. You’re saying I’m not doing a good job here.”

  “I said no such thing.”

  “Well, you say it even when you say something else.”

  “I’m confident you’ll do your very best with what’s available to you.”

  “There you go again. I’m not sure how to take that. You insinuating we’re nothing but backward hicks?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Pike’s teeth grinded again. “Thanks for your confidence, ma’am.” He started walking. “You’ve seen the body, so you might as well see this, too. Come on.”

  He led her to an empty corral on the other side of the blacksmith shop with a trough in one corner. Red spotted the wood and ground around it. “The killer washed the blood off. He must have been covered with it after what he did to Mattie Morgan.”

  Felicity peered into the water. Her reflection made an unsettling vision in scarlet. A young woman’s face, steadfast but masking revulsion and traces of doubt. She turned away.

  “Sheriff, may I read the postmortem report on Lily Rawlins?”

  “Why?”

  “To determine whether the wounds on Mattie Morgan are similar to those inflicted on Lily Rawlins. From preliminary reports, they appear to be alike
.”

  “So?”

  “Then they were killed by the same man.”

  “That possibility’s been ruminating around in my head.”

  “Maybe it is time to stop ruminating.”

  Pike bit his lower lip and stomped off.

  “Hold on, Sheriff. Does that mean I can’t read the report?”

  He skidded to a halt. “It’s not pleasant.”

  “I’ve encountered unpleasant matters in my life. I think I shall be fine.”

  Pike put on his hat and didn’t turn around. “Come to my office and I’ll give you a copy.”

  * * *

  Marcus Quigley had red-rimmed eyes, as if he perpetually cried over his patrons.

  A forty-dollar contribution to the undertaker gave Felicity admittance for a private inspection of Mattie Morgan’s body. Pike and the doctor were scheduled to arrive later for the autopsy at the funeral parlor on north Main Avenue. The less they knew about her visit, the better. Another ten dollars bought Quigley’s silence.

  Saying he didn’t feel right leaving a stranger with the deceased, the undertaker sat on a stool in the corner of the workroom where the body lay on a metal-topped table. “My pa passed on seven years ago, and I got the business by default.” Quigley spoke in tranquil tones, a habit no doubt picked up from talking with the bereaved. “It’s a good business, but I do sometimes miss conversations with the living.”

  “Mr. Quigley, I’ve talked with people who were no more alive than the clients on your table.” Felicity lifted tools out of her satchel.

  He slapped a knee and chuckled. “That’s a good one.”

  Felicity wore a light wool outfit she usually reserved for riding horses. It allowed better movement, and she didn’t have to deal with a bustle. She put on white gloves and one of Helen’s aprons. Her inspection started with the victim’s clothing, which had begun to stiffen with drying blood. Two red smudges marked the lower part of the victim’s skirt, where the killer must have cleaned the knife on the fabric. Fortunately, Quigley had installed electric lights that provided more illumination than the usual kerosene lamps.

  Over each part of the body, Felicity made unhurried passes with a magnifying glass. A purple bruise had formed on both sides of the body’s jaw, obviously from where the killer subdued her with his arm. Several strands of wavy hair about three to five inches in length were stuck in the blood under the woman’s right ear and on the hem of the dress. Mattie Morgan’s hair was longer, blonde, and straight. The hairs Felicity discovered appeared red-hued, although the blood might have tinted them. The microscope at her laboratory would reveal their true color. The hair samples went into an envelope.